John Reese (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stellen) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2015-02-12 10:01 am
stellen) wrote in maskormenacelogs2015-02-12 10:01 am
[OPEN] I just met you, and you're in training
WHO: John Reese & whoever stops by to torture him
WHERE: "The Grind", a coffee shop near the porter in De Chima
WHEN: From 6am-3pm today
WHAT: John's first day on the job as the worst barista in history
WARNINGS: Terrible customer service & possible violence
Conveniently located at the edge of downtown near the military base and porter, The Grind is your typical De Chima coffee shop and one of five shops sprinkled across the city. It caters to busy, important people going about their busy, important lives and offers quick service and a wide variety of hot drinks and gourmet pastries.
The atmosphere is young and cautiously trendy. Popular, but not overplayed songs on a carefully curated playlist create a mellow yet funky mood. It invites people to bring their computers and pretend to work, gossip with friends over a pretentious cup or simply pay too much for a croissant and be on their way.
The staff are bright, youthful and used to dealing with the steady flow of students, doctors and lawyers that make up the neighbourhood. They memorize your overly complicated drinks, do their best to pretend they care about your day and might even know you by name- they'll ask for it if they don't. Because you're a customer, not a number.
At least, most of the staff.
There's one barista that just doesn't seem to fit in. It could be that he's twenty-five years older and a foot taller than the girl at the cash register, or maybe just because he sucks at his job. He wears a bright gold tag that says 'TRAINING' right over the one that says 'John' with a drawn-on smiley face.
He screws up every drink. He wipes down the tables half-assedly and sweeps without even looking at the floor. He barely fits behind the counter and he keeps hitting his head on hanging light fixtures and bumping into people. He'll write your name down wrong, or replace it with 'glasses' or 'woman with baby'. When he says "Have a nice day" he does it with a frayed, empty sort of smile that might make you reconsider showing your face this side of town ever again.
He's too big, too old and too haggard to be doing what he's doing and he hates every minute of it, but for one reason or another he's still there- and he's your barista.
WHERE: "The Grind", a coffee shop near the porter in De Chima
WHEN: From 6am-3pm today
WHAT: John's first day on the job as the worst barista in history
WARNINGS: Terrible customer service & possible violence
Conveniently located at the edge of downtown near the military base and porter, The Grind is your typical De Chima coffee shop and one of five shops sprinkled across the city. It caters to busy, important people going about their busy, important lives and offers quick service and a wide variety of hot drinks and gourmet pastries.
The atmosphere is young and cautiously trendy. Popular, but not overplayed songs on a carefully curated playlist create a mellow yet funky mood. It invites people to bring their computers and pretend to work, gossip with friends over a pretentious cup or simply pay too much for a croissant and be on their way.
The staff are bright, youthful and used to dealing with the steady flow of students, doctors and lawyers that make up the neighbourhood. They memorize your overly complicated drinks, do their best to pretend they care about your day and might even know you by name- they'll ask for it if they don't. Because you're a customer, not a number.
At least, most of the staff.
There's one barista that just doesn't seem to fit in. It could be that he's twenty-five years older and a foot taller than the girl at the cash register, or maybe just because he sucks at his job. He wears a bright gold tag that says 'TRAINING' right over the one that says 'John' with a drawn-on smiley face.
He screws up every drink. He wipes down the tables half-assedly and sweeps without even looking at the floor. He barely fits behind the counter and he keeps hitting his head on hanging light fixtures and bumping into people. He'll write your name down wrong, or replace it with 'glasses' or 'woman with baby'. When he says "Have a nice day" he does it with a frayed, empty sort of smile that might make you reconsider showing your face this side of town ever again.
He's too big, too old and too haggard to be doing what he's doing and he hates every minute of it, but for one reason or another he's still there- and he's your barista.
oh my god how DARE you show your face around here
Of course, Clara isn't supposed to be so sharp. And Clara certainly isn't from any other world where there's some war going on. Oh, no. Clara is just a simple girl from this world's version of England - ordinary as anything. So she shrugs, trying to look perfectly simple. ]
One of the people I work with - he was a soldier. He left, though. You sort of remind me of him, that's all. So...Were you?
Sob. I'll just take my silver fox and go home...
A long time ago.
[ John wasn't sure what made him answer honestly. Maybe because the moments he could be were so few and far between. He didn't exactly enjoy lying to everyone about everything, but it was necessary.
He straightens and whether it was slippery slope of telling the truth, or just the movement, his wounded shoulder aches and he rubs at it absently with one hand. The bullet was long gone, but the shot had been taken less than a week ago. The switch from chasing after his missing comrade to scrubbing counters hadn't helped the healing process.
He drops his hand away as soon as he realizes he's doing it, and his smile takes on an extra charge. ]
Were you? This does feel an awful lot like an interrogation.
no i take it back i take it all back
That was a long time ago for her, too, though. ]
Of course not.
[ And then the look she shoots him is a sort of oh really look, a chiding look. People - especially grown men - have always tended to assume that a nicely-dressed young girl can't be anything more than that - something disadvantageous and advantageous in equal measure. Here, she gives him that look just in case he starts to think of feeling wary towards her. ]
What led you to leave, anyway? The military, I mean. My coworker - he was injured.
[ Hazarding a guess. She hadn't missed where his hand had gone; if she had to lay odds at the moment, she'd bet that he'd been touching the wound that drove him out of the military. ]
That's what I thought!
I just wanted to come home.
[ That much was the truth. He had fully intended to settle down. Then 9/11 happened and John had reenlisted, only to be drafted shortly thereafter by the CIA into the SAD for another ten years of his life.
John couldn't help the wistful note that slipped into his voice, but he swallowed after he spoke, as if something had come up he hadn't intended to let out. No matter how much time had passed his painful mistakes never felt farther away than yesterday.
Not unless he was busy, or drinking.
He finally looks away from her to the clock above the bar and rubs his hand over his face. There was a dusting of silver shadow along his jaw, lighter than the gunmetal shade of his close-cropped hair. ]
Well, it's been nice talking to you Clara, but unless you're planning on buying me lunch you'll have to find somebody else to waterboard.
no subject
No, you're just nosy, Kitty. Admit it. ]
Sure. There's a really brilliant kebab place around the corner. They make their baklava with pistachio; it's excellent.
[ She grins her winningest grin at him. ]
no subject
[ He makes a show of pondering for a moment before his eyes flicker back to her, a smirk touching his lips.
He wasn't particularly hungry, but he rarely was, which was half of his excuse for not bringing lunch. The other half was the brutal hangover that had made everything but climbing into his clothes and dragging his ass to the cafe near impossible.
Clara was curious and rewarding her efforts was likely against his best interests, but chatting with the girl had passed the time, and on some level he was eager to get out of this place and talk to someone like a normal human being.
As much as John ever could, anyway. ]
I'll have to see if the American stuff compares.
no subject
Brilliant. I'll get my things together.
[ And she picks up her latte (because like hell she's not going to drink that if she paid for it) and then goes to gather up her book and her tablet. ]
no subject
He's waiting for her by the door when she's ready, arms folded over his chest and one leg crossed over the other. He seemed to have unfolded himself upon leaving the counter, now that he didn't have to worry about hitting his head off low-hanging lamps he could allow himself to be stand at his actual height.
His hair was still a little wet, but his disposition was already sunnier. It wasn't a bad day outside and he was eager to be anywhere but stuck in the cafe. ]
I've got half an hour.
...Slave drivers.
no subject
[ Kitty grins, clearly more amused than horrified. And that just confirms, from her point of view: this isn't someone who's used to the service industry, not someone used to having to take breaks. That makes her think that he was probably telling the truth about being out of the military a long time: they've got to stay disciplined, haven't they? Ask for breaks and all that. She thinks. (She doesn't actually know all that well what goes on in the army.) ]
This place is quick, at least. Follow me.
[ She takes the lead easily, confidently. As she walks, she throws back another question at him: ]
What's your last name?